


Navigating

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Fluff, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned Vesemir (The Witcher), Minor Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), One Night Stands, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Relationship, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach is Injured, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “Roach won’t be able to travel.”Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s. “If you want to leave, bard, and go somewhere else, I won’t stop you.”--Roach gets injured, and it lets the Witcher and the Bard bond.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 295





	Navigating

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a simple prompt; "oh, I wonder what would the Boys do if Roach got hurt?" 
> 
> It then turned into *waves hands* this.

The Witcher is a cantankerous old bastard; not entirely fond of talking, which is fine for Jaskier (he talks enough for both of them), and with a deep scowl permanently etched into his face. It’s been a few weeks since Jaskier adhered himself to the Witcher’s side. The soles of his boots are beginning to wane and his joints protest every hour spent walking from town to town. Even when they come upon an inn, and Jaskier’s muscles graciously steep in a warm bath, the ache still lingers in his bones.

But the Witcher keeps going. Jaskier idly wonders how many circuits of the Continent he’s done. What villages and towns does he spend the most amount of time in? Which city is his favourite? But the Witcher stays quiet, perched up on his horse and leading them to the next town. It’s a small trading post, straddling a crossroads between some major mid-continent cities. Even though the town itself is small, it has enough taverns and inns in it to feed and house travellers. And the people don’t mind Witchers – something Jaskier has had to take into consideration when he asks for board.

Jaskier watches merchants and their aides pull the last of their wares into storage for the night. They’ll be gone by morning, on their way to whatever regent’s city who is demanding silks or spices or the most recent harvest.

Taverns and inns are filling up quickly. They manage to snag the last rooms available in a quaint enough inn with stables around the back. Jaskier slides the innkeep the necessary coins, as well as two pieces of silver for two portions of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and some mead. Jaskier’s stomach trembles with the promised of being warmed and filled.

Geralt’s horse is his own responsibility. In the weeks of following the Witcher around Jaskier’s hasn’t so much as touched the mare. Not that she would let him. Any time Jaskier so much as glances in her direction, her ears flatten and she gives him a glare that could rival her master’s.

So Jaskier nabs a small table within the inn for them as Geralt settles Roach down for the night. The smallest of chips cracks in the Witcher’s stern expression whenever his mare is concerned. He’s sure that he’s out there now, slipping off her tack for the night, making sure that stablehands don’t mess with her. A full feed bucket, a hay net, and a soft bed; that’s what Roach deserves with carrying Geralt around the Continent.

The Witcher steps into the inn just as their dinner arrives. Two bowls amply filled with stewed venison and root vegetables, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, and tankards of ale that look newly brewed. Jaskier’s stomach almost seizes at the sight.

“Hope this will be enough,” he says as Geralt sits opposite him. Because he’s seen the Witcher go for days without eating a thing – giving Jaskier his portions of rations when they started to get low – and eat an entire store of food in one sitting. There is very rarely is anything in between.

Geralt grunts. As much of an answer as Jaskier is going to get out of him.

They eat mostly in silence; Jaskier offering short bursts of conversation when he can because sometimes the silence can be deafening, despite the inn humming with noise around them. His lute sits by his leg, propped up against him. If he can stave off sleep, he might perform a few songs – if the innkeep doesn’t mind, of course. But she looks like a kind-enough soul who would appreciate a ballad of adventure.

Geralt finishes his food first, all but inhaling it and his mead. Just as he wipes the last of his crusty bread through some remaining stew, Geralt lifts his chin. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days,” he says simply. “Roach won’t be able to travel.”

Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s. “If you want to leave, bard, and go somewhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Jaskier almost splutters around a mouthful of mead. “Why would I leave? You’re where the stories are – you’re doing great things for my career.” Or _would-be_ career. He won’t rest until his songs have seeped into the soil of the Continent, stretched out from Pont Vanis to Beauclair, until every pauper and noble knows the opening plucked chords of each composition. Jaskier clears his throat. “Why, what’s wrong with your horse?”

Geralt’s eyes drop. His fingers rub together and pick at the splintering wood of the table. “One of her legs is lame,” he says. “Don’t know how I missed it.” And there’s a storm behind those eyes; looking down at his empty plate as he mulls over some thought. But Geralt grunts after a time. “Ask the innkeep if you can sing here to pay for rooms,” he says, getting up from the table and grabbing his cloak. “Our coin is running thin and I don’t want to be spending it on board.”

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says, quickly polishing off the last of his food and slinging his lute case over his shoulder.

And the innkeep is as kind as he expects her to be. _Toss A Coin_ has spread throughout the countryside like a wildfire. She has him play it for the patrons already within the tavern, settled down for their suppers. And even road-weary and feeling sleep pull at him, Jaskier lures smiles and soft laughs out of people as he strings together all of the songs he can remember. A mixture of his own compositions and songs that he learned within the Academy or out on the road.

He rattles through a handful of polkas when he spots traders from the Skellige Isles; grinning broadly when they howl back raunchy lyrics and crow in laughter. This is what he wants, when his fingers are riddled with old aged pain and his voice starts to tremble and crack; memories of people singing and dancing and laughing, his songs spreading throughout the Continent for other future bards to play with.

Gods only know how much time slips past him. Some patrons leave, heading upstairs to sleep before their early morning departing. Others order more mead and ale, sitting back in their chairs as Jaskier’s voice begins to rasp and crackle with overuse. He doesn’t have Oxenfurt mentors to lecture him anymore – _take breaks, take care of that voice, it’ll be your livelihood_. The innkeep offers him a drink during the lull between songs, when he takes the time to retune his lute. To the edge of the tavern, collecting emptied tankards and plates, one of the tavern maids watches him out of the corner of her eye. She’s a beautiful girl, a round face with emerald eyes and full lips, an ample chest and hips. Jaskier swallows. He has had people watch him before, women and men lulled in by his voice and words.

The girl giggles as she catches his eye, turning to retreat to the back with her arms laden with dishes. Long golden hair tumbles down her back and flows behind her as she walks.

And before Jaskier can pull himself together for another chorus, finishing off the last of his drink, welcoming the hum of ale in his veins, his nose wrinkles at a light perfume lapping over him. “Are you the Witcher’s bard?” The woman, who must barely be as old as him, asks. Her voice is smooth, with a light regional accent lilting through it.

A small smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I am,” he says, bowing his head slightly. The girl laughs at it. “And who may you be, my lady?”

* * *

It might be the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks, rivalling nights where he would soak a travel-weary body in a hot bath, scented with salts and oils. Jaskier blinks at the first streams of morning light stretching into the room. They’re crawling towards the foot of the bed, a mess of kicked-down sheets and furs. A light linen sheet hangs lowly over his hips, with most of the warmth lapping through him coming from the body plastered along his side.

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. Looking down at the girl next to him – or rather, _on top_ of him – he can’t stop a small content smile curling his lip. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and neck, still bare from the night before. The smell of sex still lingers in the air, and memories flashing in front of him like afterimages send a pleasurable thrum through him. The girl – and Jaskier really struggles to remember her name – shuffles against him, her arm strung over his abdomen and hugging him close.

She was sweet – blushing and giggling as they scampered upstairs and fell into bed. And her lips were soft and every touch she skimmed across him sent his skin alight.

He just hopes a father or brother doesn’t come barging through the door, wielding a knife, as they’re oft of doing.

He should go, slip out while she’s still content and asleep, and be on the road again. But the realisation settles over him that Roach is injured, and the Witcher went out to tend to her.

And...Jaskier blinks. And he can’t remember if he ever came back inside.

An arm tightens around him. The girl – _Clara_! – lifts her head from Jaskier’s shoulder, blinking against the brightness of the room. When her eyes settle on him, a smile curls along her plump lips.

“Good morning,” he offers her a smile. She has been curled around him all night. And the thought of stepping out into the fresh summer morning air, that still holds some of the night’s chill to it, isn’t the most pleasant of thoughts. Clara looks to the only window of the room. A heavy sigh escapes her. “I have to go,” she mourns. She scrubs a hand over her face. “Ellayne will kill me if I’m not downstairs to help with breakfast.”

Jaskier hums. He lets himself roll out and languish into a full-body stretch, wincing slightly at the groan of muscles and protesting joints cracking as he settles back into the mattress. He’s content to just lie here, catching up on much-needed rest. Bu the mention of breakfast has him perked.

Clara slips out of bed, quickly grabbing her clothes before early morning air can nip at her skin. She pulls the front ties of her dress together. “Will you be here for long?” she asks, mostly flattening the pleats of her skirt, but casting a quick glance to him out of the corner of her eye.

And that, he doesn’t know. “My companion’s mount is injured, I’m afraid. So until she is well enough to carry us to our next adventure, I guess I’ll be staying here.”

It earns a warm smile out of the woman. She bows her head slightly, tucking some golden hair behind her ear. “Would you...,” she nods to the door, “I can bring you up some food, if you’re hungry?”

And he tries to smother the sound of his stomach growling. But—

“Thank you, darling, that’s a lovely offer,” he replies, finally sitting up in the bed, “but I have to check in with my companion. We can have something later.”

Clara nods. She has one last check over herself before leaving, gently letting the door click shut behind her. Jaskier’s body protests getting out of bed. It’s soft and warm and his bones are tired and just screech at him to _rest_. But Geralt’s blasted well-being nibbles at the back of his mind. The Witcher keeps to himself, sure. And why would he knock on Jaskier’s door while the bard had a girl in his bed, just to bid him a goodnight?

Slipping on breeches, boots, and a cream-coloured, light shirt, Jaskier heads to the tables. Geralt’s room is beside his, and his door still hasn’t been closed. A quick glance inside the room shows the bed still neatly made; pillows fluffed and stacked to the headboard while thick furs line the foot of the bed.

The tavern downstairs is quiet. A few maids drift between tables, collecting emptied plates and topping up tankards. Breakfasts seem to be as generously portioned as dinners; fried eggs and crusty loaves of bread, still warm from the oven; grilled bacon and fried sausages, stewed beans and grilled mushrooms. It takes everything within Jaskier not to drift out to a table and stuff himself with food.

The morning isn’t as cold as he feared. Trudging further into the height of summer, the night’s chill doesn’t linger in the morning as the sun quickly started to warm the air. Labourers and stablehands in the yard are already beaded with sweat and shedding their tunics. Jaskier slips through them and heads for the stables. Most of the merchants and tradesmen have gone, taking their wares, carriages, and steeds with them. Jaskier passes mostly emptied stalls before coming upon one that has its door bolted shut.

And he blinks as he peers inside.

Geralt is there, with Roach, sitting with his back pressed up against the stable’s wall. The mare is lying down, her head snugly nestled on Geralt’s lap. The Witcher runs a hand up and down the mare’s stripe, occasionally scratching lightly at her soft muzzle. His other hands smooth along her neck, keeping her at ease and drifting further into sleep.

He doesn’t want to intrude. Looking at Geralt’s face, Jaskier’s throat almost bobs at the smoothed out expression. He looks...well, not pissed off. And in the weeks of trailing after the Witcher, he hasn’t seen Geralt _not_ scowling.

But the Witcher has finely tuned senses – something Jaskier is still getting used to. Within a few seconds, just as Jaskier thinks of slipping away, Geralt turns and looks at him.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Morning,” he says, the word stumbling out of his mouth before he can think of anything better to say.

Golden eyes linger on him for a moment before Geralt hums. _Morning_. The unspoken reply.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall’s door, peering further inside. Roach looks...well, Roach looks fine. She’s asleep, soft snores coaxed out of her by Geralt’s petting. But his eyes linger on a white cloth wrapped around one of her front fetlocks. “She’s lame?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It then occurs to him that he’s speaking quietly as to _not to wake up a horse_.

Geralt hums. “Strained, I think.” A long sigh escapes Roach, earning a small smile from the Witcher. It barely ghosts his lips, almost not there at all, but a stray beam of light streaming in through the stables catches it. “She’ll be fine.”

Jaskier nods. His fingers pick at the splintering wood of the stall door. Looking at the Witcher, he knows that he hasn’t slept. They can go for long stretches of time without sleeping, according to Geralt. But after travelling for days on end, with no breaking except to make camp, and countless completely bounties for the neighbouring towns and cities, the Witcher needs rest. Jaskier clears his throat. “Did you, uh,” he says, “did you get much sleep?”

That quirks Geralt’s eyebrow.

Jaskier splays his hands. “Just, I noticed that you didn’t sleep inside, and I thought that you might appreciate, um, a changing of the guard...in a way.”

Geralt watches him carefully. “Roach doesn’t like you,” he says simply. _And I don’t trust you enough to touch my horse_. The last part goes unsaid, but the words linger in the air between them.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I know, but,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I thought that you might be tired. And breakfast is being served inside, if you’re hungry.”

Those golden eyes could bear right through him at the best of times; but Geralt regards the bard for a moment. He turns to Roach, still contently strung across his lap, snoring peacefully. He fidgets with some of her mane. “She has to keep lying down,” he says after a time. When he looks at Jaskier, his gaze hardens. “She can’t put any weight on her leg.”

Jaskier nods. “Understood.”

Roach wakes as Geralt carefully slips out from underneath her. She lets out a soft nicker before Geralt gentles her muzzle. The two of them seem to have an unspoken conversation, just looking at each other. Geralt stands, stretching out his back and legs. His armour sits in pieces stacked against the corner of the stall, with the Witcher only clad in a loose black tunic and breeches and worn boots.

He slips past Jaskier, nostrils flaring slightly. He stalls in his steps, turning to Jaskier; a question forming on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately gets swallowed once he turns and leaves the barn.

As soon as Geralt disappears behind the corner of the stables, Jaskier turns to the stall door. Roach is awake, watching him with stern eyes. Her ears flatten as Jaskier steps into the stable. He holds up his hands. “I’m just here to help,” he says, and it occurs to him that he could be mad, talking to and trying to reason with a _horse_.

The mare huffs, curling in on herself and slipping back to sleep.

Jaskier sits in the corner of the stall, content to just watch over the mare until Geralt returns; preferably with a full stomach and well-rested. He’s watched the Witcher meditate before, when Jaskier sits by the campfire and idly plucks at the strings of his lute. Geralt would sit nearby, eyes closed and hands settled on to his thighs. Even though it all had the air of sleeping, Geralt could snap back within seconds. And his swords always sat nearby.

Jaskier’s head thumps back against the stable’s wall. The mare slips back asleep, her injured leg stretched out away from her. Looking at it, even with the cloth draped over it, he can’t see anything particularly wrong with it. His mind is drawn back to the horses his father owned – and the stablehands that he employed. The boys the same age as the viscount’s son, and got along famously well. One of them in particular, Johannes, was good at fixing all of the viscount’s horses. Jaskier wishes that he were here – the boy, barely older than Jaskier, could look at a standing horse and point out everything wrong with it, and how to fix it.

So he shuffles over. The cloth draped over Roach’s leg is damp and slightly cool to the touch. Peeling it away from her leg, Jaskier’s brow knits into a frown. It’s swollen, ever so slightly, but just enough to be different from her other fetlock. He clicks his tongue. “Poor girl,” he mumbles, looking for her water bucket. He dips the cloth back into it. It won’t be as cold as he’d like it to be, but it’ll help.

Roach watches him, still sprawled out in her bed of hay and sawdust. She stays stock still as Jaskier lays the cloth back over her ankle, making sure that enough of it sits seeping into her skin.

He isn’t sure how long he spends in that stall. A few stablehands come and go, mucking out other stalls and leading new travellers’ horses into them. Jaskier’s ears prick at a few different accents rolling in through the yard. Merchants from all over the Continent stream through these roads. And if he were younger, he might want to hop on one of their carriages and go with them to wherever it is that they’re going. Maybe sticking with the Witcher might get him to see the entire Continent.

The day trudges by, and surprisingly enough, Geralt leaves him to watch over Roach for longer than he expected. The mare eventually blinks awake, stretching out languidly. As she makes to stand, Jaskier sits up, holding out his hands. “Now just you wait, madam,” he says, “you have to rest.” He wants to set his hand on her neck and scratch at her – like Geralt had been doing. But the mare’s ears flatten. Jaskier almost balks. “ _Listen_. You’re injured. Gods alive, but you’re as stubborn as your master-”

A throat clears. Whipping his head around, Jaskier almost blanches at the sight of the Witcher standing at the stall door. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is she giving you trouble?” he rumbles, looking down at both Jaskier and the horse.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s just as stubborn as you, I swear.” And it would be sort of endearing; if said horse wasn’t flinching at his every touch and flattening her ears back when he comes too close.

Geralt grunts. “She’s injured,” he reasons, fooling his arms over his chest. “She’s allowed to be stubborn.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. _Stupid Witchers and their respect for their mounts_. For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in his life, Jaskier swallows his words. So he grabs another piece of cloth and soaks it in water. Shuffling footsteps fall in front of him before he sees Geralt lowering himself into the far corner of the stall, letting Roach put her head back in his lap. Jaskier tries to keep his attention on the task at hand; but taking a quick glance up he’s almost floored by the sight of the Witcher letting the mare settle on him with a gentle huff. He cards his fingers through her mane, wrangling out the tangles and smoothing the hair against her neck.

It’s a while before either of them moves. Geralt’s head perks up at the sound of people talking. A farrier. He’s an older man, with thinning grey hair and a weathered face. But he’s able to nudge and move a draft horse around to look at the stead’s shoes. A merchant stands nearby, holding on to the horse’s headcollar. Geralt’s eyes narrow slightly. Something he does when he’s thinking.

“Do you want him to have a look at Roach?” Jaskier asks, his voice quiet. The mare’s eye opens slightly, regarding him for a moment, before she goes back to sleep.

Geralt hums. With the mare’s head settled comfortably in his lap, it’s Jaskier who offers to proposition the farrier. That, and people don’t tend to even glance in Geralt’s direction when he enters a room. The man is just about finished with the merchant’s steed, wiping his hands on a rag.

Geralt stands and stalks out of the stall. Jaskier keeps a firm pressure on Roach’s tendon, lightly massaging it, trying to get the blood to flow properly again. The mare huffs, but she doesn’t lurch up to bite him. And honestly, that’s all Jaskier can really hope for.

Geralt returns with the farrier, quietly telling him what happened and how he found it.

The man, older than Jaskier took him for, nods sagely. “If it’s just swellin’, then the lass will just need rest,” he says, stepping into the stall. Jaskier backs away, happy to let the expert at it.

Some deep noise rumbles out of Roach – not a particularly happy one at the sight of a stranger coming near her. Geralt clicks his tongue. A sharp sound that cracks through the air as harsh as a whip.

Jaskier settles his hand on to her hindquarters, fingers flush out into her fur. The beginning of a winter coat is starting to settle in, with her hair fluffier than usual.

It doesn’t take the farrier long to stand back up. “Aye, nothing too serious,” he says, slipping out of the stall again. Geralt eyes him cautiously. “Rest her as long as you’re able to. Will you be heading home, wolf?”

Jaskier blinks. He sits up that bit straighter. _Home?_

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I was planning to,” he rumbles, letting his voice fall quiet. “But if she can’t walk, I’ll stay down here.”

The farrier shakes his head. “None of that,” he waves his hand, “you wolves need to go home and get your own rest. She should be right as rain within a few days.”

The farrier leaves them, not taking a hint of gold. When Geralt comes back inside, letting Roach nudge his hand when he leans down to scratch her forehead, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “Home?” he asks, never quite being able to snap his jaw shut or silence his own tongue.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. “Some Witchers return home for the winter,” he rumbles, sitting back down to let Roach stretch out her neck and settle her head in his lap. He cards his fingers through her mane and forelock. The mare huffs.

Jaskier hums, scratching any stretch of skin he can reach on the mare. It keeps his fidgeting hands busy, but his mind still churns. The Witcher is a grumpy old thing with a tight jaw and a silent tongue. Anything he’s managed to lure out of him in the past few weeks was solely by chance, or suggesting a rumour that he once heard and watching for a reaction, just to see if it’s true or not.

Geralt has never, ever said anything about a _home_. He doesn’t have much of an accent. Nothing as rasping, yet lulling, like the ones from the Skellige isles; and certainly not like the nasal of most of the wealthier capitols. Jaskier doesn’t even know where he’s from.

“Where’s home?” he finds himself asking. Because when the flood starts, he can rarely ever stop it. He’ll blame it on youth, but he knows that he just likes prodding and luring things out of the Witcher.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a while, but Jaskier watches his response swirl around in his mind; some internal struggle churning around on whether or not to voice it. When something slips out of the Witcher’s lips, it’s quiet and Jaskier almost misses it. “Kaer Morhen. The Witcher school.”

 _School_. He’s become adept at cementing everything Geralt says to memory. He can spin ballads and stories out of most things. But this seems like something different.

Geralt’s jaw flexes. “We go home every winter,” he rumbles, keeping his attention solely on the mare sprawled out on his lap. “Or when he can, at least.”

Something hangs in the air. It’s sour and Jaskier doesn’t like it at all.

 _I won’t be able to this year_.

The bard clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Roach will be better by morning,” he says firmly, speaking it into existence. The mare snoozes contently between the two of them. Jaskier sits back, pressing his back flush against the wooden wall.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m staying here,” he replies, “for company.”

The Witcher’s eyes narrow. “Your girl might be put out at the fact you’re spending the night out here with us, rather than her.”

He remembers Geralt’s nostrils flaring.

Curse Witchers and their supernatural senses.

But he will lounge in the fact that this may be the longest time the two of them have been _conversing_ together. It might just be the most amount of words he’s heard come out of the Witcher in one go.

As soon as he’s realised that, the Witcher falls back into silence.

* * *

A storm rolls in from neighbouring hills. Jaskier bristles as thunder rumbles overhead. Flashes of lightning have been creeping closer over the past hour, with the rain outside only growing heavier and heavier. The barn is well-kept, sheltering them from the worst of the rain. An occasional drip manages to sneak past, but he’s weathered out storms in worse places.

Roach doesn’t like storms. In the few months that he’s spent with the Witcher and his mount, he’s learned everything he can about the mare. She will begrudgingly take any apple slices or sugar cubes he can steal for her, and that she likes to puff out her belly when Geralt is trying to do up her saddle’s girth; just to annoy him.

But she _hates_ storms.

He settles a steady hand on her flank, soothing words slipping out of him as her ears flick and her body tenses with every clap of thunder. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, mostly to the horse and a little bit to himself.

He isn’t overly fond of storms either. His childhood was spent in a kingdom with rare bad weather. Sure, it rained and winds tumbled down from far off mountains, and the blusters that swept in from the sea weren’t pleasant, but storms were rare. He remembers spending most noisy nights with his mother, enduring the scowling face of his father grunting that _viscounts don’t hide behind their mother’s skirts at a bit of wind_.

His mother never said anything like that to him. Warm arms bundled him against her chest and she carried him to her own chambers – why his parents had separate rooms, he never quite understood. He didn’t think it was strange until he went to college and met other students, all saying how much their parents loved each other.

Love withered away and died a long time before Jaskier was born.

A stray rumble of thunder catches him off guard. He tries to stop himself from jerking, but his breath catches in his throat.

The mare’s ears flatten for a moment. How is he meant to keep her calm and steady if he can’t do so himself?

Geralt looks up. He’s busied himself with plaiting a few braids into Roach’s mane, leaving them for a moment before untangling them with his fingers. He watches Jaskier curiously. “Alright?”

Jaskier blinks, realising a moment too long that the Witcher is talking to _him_. “Yeah,” he rasps, coughing to clear his throat. “Yes. I’m alright.” Though he looks to the barn’s ceiling, watching how light blinks and stretches across the sky for a brief moment, followed by a rumble of noise.

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You don’t like storms,” he says slowly, not really a question, but not quite a statement either.

Jaskier nods all the same. “Not the biggest fan of them, I’ll admit,” he laughs breathlessly. Because he can always poke some fun at himself. “A young strapping viscount like myself, afraid of a bit of noise. Funny, isn’t it?” For a moment, his tongue feels sour in his mouth at the thought of his father’s words tumbling out of his lips instead of his own.

Roach settles after a moment, fine with the fact that the storm doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere anytime soon.

“I don’t like them either.”

Jaskier looks up. The quiet words are almost lost to the next clap of thunder and the continuous pelting of rain on the roof above them. He blinks. “What?”

Geralt sighs. “I don’t like storms either,” he says, a bit firmer. “I’m better with them now, but...when I was younger, I tried to hide from them.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request to keep going, that the bard won’t interrupt.

Geralt draws in a small breath. “One of our teachers, Vesemir...he was a father figure to most of us. We were separated from our actual families. Not stolen or anything that humans seem to think. We were dumped at the bottom of the mountain. What else could the wolves do but bring in the pups.”

Jaskier stays silent. He lets himself slouch against the stable wall, getting as comfortable as he can among the wood and straw. The heat from the mare wards off the worst of the chill.

Geralt sighs. “He let us hide with him. The keep is up high, almost touching the clouds. And the higher up you are, the worst the winds get. And the winds during winter storms were _strong_. I thought that the walls would cave in one night, the weather was so bad. So...I hid. I went to Vesemir’s room, and he looked at me, nodded, and let me inside. There were others there too. My brothers.”

 _A father. Brothers_. Jaskier’s mind swirls.

Geralt hums, idly fidgeting with some of Roach’s mane. “When you live as long as I have, you start to get used to the things that scare you.” Some sort of breathless laugh puffs out of him. “Still scared shitless of the Crones, though.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I would hide with my mum,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out at all. But it’s a tit-for-tat. If Geralt manages to share something, he will too. “She let me sleep in her room until morning. My father wasn’t...too happy, but he couldn’t stop her. Even when he tried to have a servant bar my door.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“My mum is the one with the title,” Jaskier explains. “ _She’s_ the viscountess. My father was a baron. He married up. When the servant went to get the beams, my mum stalks down from her study and demanded that nothing be done to my room. If I wanted to stay with her, I could. I think my father was actually afraid of her. With one word, he would be sent straight back down to be a lowly baron of some forgetful town on the outskirts of the province.” Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “He hated her, really. But I think it was more fear. Not of her, but what she could do to him.”

Geralt nods. He can’t pretend to know the in and outs of noble life, particularly the politics of marrying up or down your stature. It’s all a bit frivolous to him, really, especially when the Continent seems to have bigger problems on its hands. But he nods, humming. “She sounds like a good woman.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “And your father sounds like a good man.”

Geralt laughs. It’s small, and barely a huff of air, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards, and Jaskier will take it. He made the Witcher _laugh._

* * *

He pads back to the stall with everything Geralt asked for. The storm raged through the night, and even though the innkeep sent people out to bring them inside – including Clara, which warmed Jaskier’s cheeks with a flush – but they stayed. Roach slept for most of the night, only trying to get up to get some water and hay. Geralt helped her. Jaskier sat by with a faint smile ghosting his lips at the sight of the Witcher reaching for the hay net and water bucket, bringing them down to the mare so that she can eat and drink.

Geralt waits for him by the stall door. The mare’s leg looks better already. Most of the swelling has gone down, but it’s still a stubborn tightness that remains. He hands over a small bowl of plants and rainwater he managed to find. A poultice will work the last of the strain away. He’s seen Geralt make them before, more often for himself to put on cuts and injuries gotten from rough hunts.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall door, watching as Geralt sets the cool mixture on the mare’s leg. She goes to nose at it, but her ears flatten at a slight bat on her muzzle from Geralt. “ _Don’t eat it_ ,” he says sternly, as if talking to a human child. The mare huffs, but turns away.

By the time Roach is healthy again and able to stand on her four legs without much hassle, it’s been another day. Jaskier stretches out his back and legs as he sets their bags down beside the barn. Geralt does up the last of Roach’s tack, making sure that everything is sitting comfortably on the mare. He won’t ride her. For the next few days, he’ll walk beside her and just let her carry the bags.

Jaskier can’t help but grin at the idea of the Witcher walking. Maybe his own feet will start aching now that he’s down on the ground himself.

The bard stuffs the last of the rations into their bags. A small loaf of bread, dried roasted beef, and a flagon of water. It should carry them until the next village, almost a day’s walk away. He got the package from Clara, the woman trying to lure him to stay, but _adventure calls, and I cannot document it without being on the road, my dear_.

Maybe he’ll come this way again, when the weather is kinder and he can stay for longer. But the thought of falling into the girl’s bed again doesn’t sit as well with him as it once did. Even as he left, she pecked a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone, and it churned his stomach. Not in the nice way he’s come to love. But in a way that made him feel like he was about to get sick.

He pats a hand on the mare’s neck. “Good to go?” he asks her, making peace with the fact that if Geralt won’t talk to him, he might as well try the horse.

Roach doesn’t lurch out to nip him. She doesn’t kick out a leg to bash in his shins, or try and flick her tail at him like a whip. Instead, her head falls into his arms as he scratches behind her ear. “Yeah,” he coos, “we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“It’s the apples and sugar you insist on feeding her.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt hauls the last of the bags on to the mare’s saddle, strapping them in for the walk ahead. The Witcher settles him with a stern look. “We’re tight on coin. Stop spending it on treats for her.”

Jaskier balks. “She’s just recovered from an injury – one probably got from carrying your arse around the whole Continent. She deserves every treat I can get her.”

“Then you’ll be getting them with your own money.”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.” Jaskier lifts his lute on to his shoulder. “The people of this fine town paid me enough gold to buy her a whole orchid.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. He huffs, grabbing the mare’s reins, and starting to walk down the worn cobblestone path towards the next village.

Jaskier walks on Roach’s other side, keeping the mare between him and the Witcher. Even though Roach is fine with him now bumping against her, he can’t say the same thing about Geralt. They manage to get almost a mile before Jaskier pipes up, his fingers fidgeting by his side and his tongue ready to let words slip out. “So,” he says, almost mostly to the start of a canopy forming over their heads. A forest stretches out in front of them, damp yet vibrant green from the rain. “When will you be heading home?”

Geralt grunts. “Winter.”

“Good job on being specific. That’s a _whole_ season, Geralt. _When_ will you be going?”

“Not too sure yet,” the Witcher mutters. “When the winds change.”

“They seem pretty changed to me now.” Storms rolling in out of nowhere. Rain. Wind. The slight nipping chill in the air. It could very well be winter now.

Geralt sighs. “Afraid to walk the road without me, bard?”

“No.” Jaskier tries not to look as petulant as his reply sounded. “No. I just want to know. I might head to Oxenfurt.”

“A warm, safe place.” Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye. Even with a horse between them, he still manages to find the bard. “Keep yourself there for as long as you can.”

“And miss the adventures you bring me on? Never.” “When will you come down from the mountain? Spring? Where will I meet you?”

Geralt tries to hide the small smile ghosting his lips by turning his head away. But a breathy laugh slips out of him all the same. “Who says that I’ll meet back up with you? I have contracts to collect, bard, and they’re far too dangerous for humans to go on.”

“I’ll keep myself safe,” Jaskier replies. “But I know you like the company, grump that you are and all that.”

Geralt hums.

Jaskier will find him again. The thought of leaving him one day and spending a whole season without the Witcher there doesn’t sit quite right in his stomach. It churns and chills his blood, and he wants to retch. But if the Witcher must return home, and he can’t come with him, then that’s fine. He’ll just pick up the scent after a season and continue on their trek through the Continent.

And Geralt will berate him for it; snapping that he’ll be a burden and that his presence isn’t wanted, but something has settled in those golden eyes that says _please come back_. Something soft and something that wasn’t there before.

So he’ll meet him again. Jaskier nods, mostly to himself. He promises. 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated


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